


a mother's love

by artoriusrex (jesusonaunicycle)



Series: bean-sidhe [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Banshees, Bisexuality, Character Death, Childhood Sweethearts, Fae & Fairies, Family Secrets, Grief/Mourning, Irish Sarah Rogers, Irish Steve Rogers, Irish Winifred Barnes, Magical Realism, Mother-Son Relationship, Multi, No Underage Romance either, No Underage Sex, Platonic Relationships, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, Soulmates, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-07 15:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10363080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesusonaunicycle/pseuds/artoriusrex
Summary: On April first, 1932, Sarah Rogers died. Tuberculosis, the doctors said, like the ones she’d treated at the asylum. They told Steve that it was the fever that did her in, the illness just too much for her malnourished, tiny body to bear.They told Winifred Barnes something different.Or, the death of Sarah Rogers, and what it means for her only son, and the Barnes family.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Heck ya back at it again!!! I'm so pleased, this is the first (1st) time I've actually endeavored to finish a series!! And it's all thanks to you guys, I wanna take some time to really REALLY thank you for sticking with me this far. Your comments (and messages) have been _so_ helpful. Please guys do not hesitate to shoot me a line at my tumblr (capnsteeb.tumblr.com), it's so encouraging.
> 
>  **ALSO** it has come to my attention (via TheIntelligentHufflepuff) that this lil tidbit could be considered romantic between underage Stucky who are in vastly different age groups. **At this point in time** , there is no romantic intention between them. Just the soulmate issue and the eventuality of a relationship.
> 
> SO, without further ado, let's get on with my two boys and their families!
> 
>  **Warnings:** _Death of a family member, relationship strain, mention of terminal illness, graphic description of illness, allusion of further death_

>   _The fate of Steve Rogers was still largely up in the air after his mother’s death in 1932. He had no family in the United States that he knew of; the family back in Ireland were unreachable. He had very few friends due to his medical issues, which made it impossible for him to attend school regularly. He also started so many fights with the instructors that the schools often were overjoyed at his absence._
> 
> _The friends he did have were the Barnes family, all of whom came snarling for his defense in the spring of 1932. Winifred Barnes, who was outspoken for children’s rights at the time, was exceptionally righteous. There are countless documents, mostly first-hand accounts, of Missus Barnes causing outrage at St. Elizabeth's Orphanage (where Rogers was housed at the time), demanding to take custody of Rogers. There was a particularly compelling article written by Barnes’s own daughter, Rebecca, in 1972, which stated:_ _“ **My mother was Captain America’s champion long before he was 6’2” and America's poster boy. The poor nuns at St. Elizabeth's didn't have a chance against her. I remember hearing Mama scream and holler at those nuns, "Sister, with all due respect, that lad is more my son than he has ever been a child of God. You release him to me right now, or so help me Lord, He will help me in smiting you where you stand." I won't ever forget that.”** _ (Chavez, _Captain America: The Troubled Youth)_
> 
>  

* * *

  

Steve Rogers pounded on James Barnes’ door after running down the street. His skinny chest heaved, each breath burning, like liquid fire being poured down his throat. His eyes ached; his vision tilted dangerously. A feeling of intense dread was building in him, stuttering his heart and making his breathing ragged. But his fist did not stop hitting the wooden door of Bucky’s apartment.

It didn’t take long before someone came to the door. A wild tangle of brown hair met his gaze, welcome and inviting. A hard-planed face, with a sharp jawline and equally sharp gray eyes appeared in the doorway. Rebecca Barnes, lovely in a rumpled nightgown with dark purple bags underneath her eyes, arched an inquisitive eyebrow at him.

“Steve? What’re you doin’ here so late?”

“Becca,” Steve gasped, desperately holding back tears, “Becca, please tell me you know where Bucky is.”

Confused, Becca squinted at him. “He’s been home for hours, Steve,” she said, voice still rough with sleep. “You know that, though, he was rantin’ and ravin’ about you when he came back.”

They’d been out, stalking the streets and getting into trouble. They weren’t old enough to get into any real establishments—Steve had turned thirteen that past summer, and Buck’s birthday was a few weeks away to being seventeen—so they haunted alleys, sometimes joining up with Charlie so they’d get into a speakeasy or Nonie at a rag club. But they didn’t pinch enough pennies to get into Coney, and the steady drizzle of rain had chased off both of the respectable older Barneses, who primped for nights out. So they wandered around, eventually getting to the docks, where two boys roughing about wasn’t so uncommon.

Somehow—Steve didn’t ask, though he was mightily curious—Bucky got ahold of some old rotgut. The alcohol hadn’t bothered Steve, but he wouldn’t let Steve drink it, because he was too little. Said he was too small, that at his age the booze would just make him dumber. _That_ just got him pissed, so they’d fought; dirty and mean, like they hadn’t in a while. But it’d ended when Steve snapped, “I ain’t no child,” to which Bucky’d replied, “Well I wouldn’t know, you’re certainly actin’ like one!”

They’d never addressed the age gap. Steve knew he was young, and small and sickly to boot, so he knew Bucky sometimes got tired of him. Bucky was older—already growing into his frame, hands and feet no longer too big for him, his facial structure not sitting ill on him anymore. He was _handsome,_ and so dang _smart._ Buck was a whizz with numbers in the way Steve wished he could be. He was popular, had great prospects—even for a poor first-generation American. Dames loved him; even some of the White Hand’s molls. He shouldn’t be wasting so much time with Steve.

With that in mind, Steve’s eyes had filled with tears, unbidden. To cover it up he’d snapped out terrible things, mean things that he didn’t even know he’d thought, spitting and cursing. Bucky’d just watched him, eyes getting bigger. Then, when Steve was finally done, he’d turned on his heel and stomped off, leaving a bewildered and hurt Bucky Barnes in his wake.

He’d been so angry, he hadn’t stopped running until he’d gotten home. His ma was still at the asylum. So in an empty apartment, barely kept and maintained the best they could, Steve let himself breathe, marveling in the fact that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t cry.

Rebecca was glaring at him now, though, irritated at being woken for nothing. Steve just caught his sobs in his throat.

“Please, Becca. Just tell me if he’s home,” he begged, unable to stop the yawning fear in his stomach. In a burst of good faith, Rebecca sighed and opened the door wider, allowing Steve in. “Thank you,” he breathed, rushing forward.

“You’re lucky you’re family, Steve-o,” Becca snapped, placing a firm hand on Steve’s shoulder. Unlike Nonie, Becca’s hands were rough—her fingernails were cropped short and often jagged-edged, her body tough and lean where Nonie’s was gently curved. Steve saw steel in her gray eyes as she finished, “He’s in his room, sleepin’ it off. If you gotta wake ‘im, do it—I’ve never seen Buck so goddamn miserable.”

Steve choked out a feeble, “Yes ma’am,” and lurched toward Bucky’s bunk as soon as Rebecca let him go. He felt her eyes on his back, burning and sharp, but that didn’t stop him from practically charging into his best friend’s room.

Predictably, Bucky was passed out, star-fished across his narrow bed and snoring loud enough to wake the dead. Steve, then, finally let himself crumble. He fell to his knees by Bucky’s bedside, hitching sobs erupting from his throat. Steve couldn’t help but lay a trembling hand on Bucky’s arm, warm and solid, and consoled himself knowing _it wasn’t him, it wasn’t him, it wasn’t—_

“Steve?” Bucky mumbled, half-asleep. Steve looked up to see Bucky peering at him, bleary gray eyes bloodshot with drink and crusted over with sleep. His breath stank with liquor. He’d never looked so beautiful.

As soon as Bucky saw he was crying, the boy scrambled to lever himself off his mattress. He wobbled a little, but otherwise was just as graceful as he ever was. A harsh breath tore out of Steve’s throat.

“Oh God, Bucky—” Steve started, stopped; his voice kept breaking. He sat there trembling.

Bucky didn’t even hesitate, reaching down to pull Steve up onto the mattress with him—Steve was barely ninety pounds, and Bucky was strong. It didn’t take a lot for him to pull Steve up next to him and fold him gently in his arms, aware of Steve’s crooked spine.

Steve kept sobbing, so hard he was half terrified of his asthma kicking in. But Bucky kept holding him, rubbing warm, gentle hands up and down his back, over his shoulders, murmuring quiet things into his ear to calm him down.

“Hush, it’s okay baby, it’s alright. Shh, _a rún;_ come on, Stevie. Breathe for me, okay? Breathe with me, darlin’ _,_ ” he whispered, and Steve eventually settled, only a few hitches in his breathing, following Bucky’s example.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to Steve’s rattling lungs. He was tucked to Bucky’s chest, head turned into his neck, breathing in the scent of _sweat liquor spice Bucky._

Soon, though, the silence was disturbed. Bucky shifted against him, and asked, quietly, “Steve, why’re you cryin’?”

There was fear in his voice. Steve could understand. He knew that Bucky knew—he knew that all the Barnes children knew, whether they believed it or not. His mama had told him just as well, with her secret smiles and haunted eyes. The Barnes family was _theirs,_ and Sarah Rogers wouldn’t let them forget it. Not to mention the physical kick in Steve’s chest, right under his heart, whenever he was away from Bucky too long. They belonged to each other, whether they wanted it or not.

The only thing was, Steve _did_ want it. Whatever had compelled him in the womb, whatever feeling he’d given his ma that said _I choose, I choose, I choose him,_ he still felt it. He just didn’t know if Bucky felt it too.

“I—I thought it was you, Buck,” Steve whispered. His body started shaking again; not from fear this time, but joy. “Thank God, it’s not you though, I saw you and you’re fine—it’s not _you,_ it’s not, it’s—”

“Okay, okay baby,” Bucky hushed, anxiously watching Steve’s breathing. “It’s not me. It’s someone else though, innit? Do you know?”

“No,” Steve said flippantly. He didn’t much care. It wasn’t _Bucky_ —whoever it was wasn’t in the Barnes family, for sure. But he couldn’t pin it down, who it was. Sometimes the power was like that—fierce and overwhelming, precise but not accurate. It was fine though. It wasn’t Bucky.

Bucky sighed in relief, some tension leaving him. But he still sat rigid—his touch was gentle but not affectionate, not like usual. And then Steve realized how the last time they talked ended.

It took a while, but Steve shuffled around in Bucky’s arms to face him. The boy’s eyes were swollen—bad liquor did that to him, Steve knew from experience—but they were still bright and gray. He loved those eyes. He loved the entire damn face, if he’s honest.

“Bucky,” Steve said, shame squirming in his gut. “I’m sorry for yellin’ at you.”

Bucky seemed surprised at first, but it disappeared under a similar mask of shame. “It’s alright, Steve. I’m sorry, too.”

“You don’t _gotta_ be, though,” Steve stressed, eyes wide. The tear tracks on his face tightened as he changed expression. “Buck, you didn’t do nothin’ wrong. You’re just lookin’ out for me. I shouldn’t’a said the things I said, Buck. It was wrong.”

Bucky did look surprised, then. His eyebrows lifted towards his hairline, his mouth dropped open slightly. Steve had to chastise himself for looking at Bucky’s lips instead of continuing with his apology.

“It was, Buck. It was wrong and hurtful. I don’t ever wanna make you feel like you don’t mean somethin’ to me.” He said sincerely, and a laugh huffed its way out of Bucky.

“What’s gotten into you, Rogers?” Bucky asked, near breathless. Steve smiled shyly.

“I just… I just want you to know I care ‘bout you, Buck. You’re my best guy. I can’t stand the thought of hurtin’ you. And after I felt what I did, I…” he trailed off, shivering. He couldn’t stand the idea of Bucky dying, especially if they were on bad terms.

“You idiot,” Bucky said fondly, and Steve looked up to see his affectionate smile, crinkles at the corner of his eyes. The thing behind Steve’s heart swelled.

“I love you, you damn fool. I’m not goin’ anywhere. You’re it for me, and I’m it for you. You ain’t ever gonna scare me off, even if you are a mean bastard sometimes,” Bucky said softly, carding his fingers through Steve’s hair. It felt so good, Steve’s eyes slid closed of their own accord.

“I love you,” Steve echoed, and he felt rough, chapped lips press against his forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up,” Bucky muttered, but it lacked bite. He maneuvered them gently so that they could lay down, Steve tucked under one arm, his head resting on Bucky’s chest. “Your ma comin’ home tonight?”

“Nah,” Steve mumbled, tired from the crying and lulled by the rumble of Bucky’s voice in his chest, the warmth on his shoulders, “she’s got the graveyard shift. Said I could spend some more time with you, tonight.”

“Oh, did she?” Bucky huffed out a laugh, and Steve cracked a smile. “Your ma’s a matchmaker, Steve. She’s got some nerve.”

“You love her, asshole,” Steve retorted sleepily, and he felt rather than heard Bucky’s responding laugh.

“Yeah,” he murmured, pressing a firm kiss to the top of Steve’s head. “I guess I do.”

They fell asleep like that, Steve curled up against Bucky and Bucky curled around Steve. They just fit, Steve thought, pleased as he drifted into sleep. They fit just right.

 

* * *

 

The thing with his power was precision, not accuracy. This particular fact was almost entirely ignored—faced with the possibility of his _chéadsearc_ dying, Steve hyper-focused. Which, of course, left others to pick up the slack.

Winifred Barnes thought on this gloomily, alone at the table in a shoddy, worn-down studio apartment. Her fingers were curled around a tin cup, filled with herbal tea. She watched sadly as Sarah Rogers puttered around the sparse kitchen, wracking coughs filling the room as she worked.

“Sarah,” Winifred said, not caring that her voice was pleading at this point, “you must tell him. You’re gettin’ sicker by the minute.”

A dirty pot clattered into the basin on the counter. Sarah cursed quietly, but then projected, “I can’t just tell the lad I’m dyin’, Winifred. He needs to learn.” Her voice was hoarse, throat raw with sickness.

“Learn _what_ , exactly, Sarah?” Winifred demanded. She’d been hearing a version of the same excuse since Sarah had wandered into her house that night, three months ago now. Sarah mostly deflected, muttering cryptic things about birthrights and proper teaching. But she never answered Winifred; she certainly didn’t tell Steve, either.

The kitchen was eerily silent for a moment, and Winifred thoughtfully spun the tin of tea in her hands. When Sarah did emerge, Winifred winced at how she looked.

At the three month mark, Sarah Rogers looked like she needed to be hospitalized. A sheen of fever-sweat adorned her hairline like a halo. Her red eyes, usually so sharp, were dull. Spots of color were high on her cheeks, and her skin no longer just looked pale, it was cast in a sickly pallor. Her blonde hair hung in strings around her face where it wasn’t pulled back in a thin tail.

“Winifred, do you know why the _bean-sidhe_ scream?”

The question startled Winifred. Sarah was gazing at her, thin hands wrapped around a tin of tea. Sarah looked more like the banshees Winifred’s mother told her about; skeleton-like creatures clad in black, women with wrinkles and yellowed, jagged teeth, sickly and angry. Sarah was sickly, her skin had fine wrinkles, and her black dress skimmed the floor. But her teeth weren’t bared and she didn’t seem angry—just tired.

“To warn families of death approachin’,” Winifred answered.

Sarah nodded solemnly. “Yes, that’s it. We scream to warn others of terrible things. But do you know how we know?”

Winifred’s heart stuttered. This was the first time Sarah had ever admitted it. “I don’t.”

Sarah smiled at her, a tiny little thing, one that echoed across the Rogers family. She’d seen the exact same expression on Steve’s face. “No one does, really. We used to, long ago,” Sarah murmured, her dress whispering against the floor as she walked around the table. “Long ago, when our people moved in tribes, and shamans and seers were our guides, banshees were taught to harness their gift. But the Romans came,” Sarah’s lip curled, “and as time passed, our way of life started to disappear. The old gods vanished, and so did we.” Sarah turned to look at Winifred, then, and for a moment Winifred saw an edge back in Sarah’s eyes, a trick of the light. “Our teachin’s were forgotten, but our heritage was not. My mother was gifted the way I am, the way my son is. She taught me all she could,” her voice cracked, though Winifred did not see any trace of tears, “and I’ve done my best with my boy. But some things are meant to be learned by trial and error.”

“Like what?” Winifred whispered, her grip on the tin desperate. “Like knowin’ if someone’s gonna die? Like _anam_ —”

“ _Anamchara_ isn’t somethin’ we learn,” Sarah snapped, the tin of tea flying out of her hands. Winifred jumped in her seat, but dared not move as Sarah stared at her, lip curled and fire in her eyes. “ _Anamchara_ is a _gift,_ somethin’ that’s left over from the old gods! It is sacred, meant only for the truest forms of love, of knowledge, it is—” Winifred watched, wide-eyed, as Sarah started to cough, lungs overtaxed. The banshee doubled over, hand clasped around her mouth, and Winifred had to rush forward, only to be met by a bloodstained palm, upraised.

Bloody fingers stopped Winifred in her tracks. The banshee was deathly pale, and her eyes were sharp where she was glaring at Winifred through her sickness. Red smeared around her mouth, stained her teeth, as she ground out, “Leave it, Winifred. I’m committin' m'self in the morn.”

“Sarah,” Winifred choked out, unaware that her eyes were burning with tears. Sarah snorted at her, a figure curled over in pain as she cleaned her hands on a dirty dish rag. The tea was left in a puddle on the floor.

“Don’t you get soft on me, Winifred. Tha’s for your lad and mine only. _We’re_ the bricky old dames,” Sarah smiled, bloodstained, as she gingerly walked away from the counter toward the kitchen. Winifred had to restrain herself from helping as Sarah limped her way to her bedroom.

Winifred followed her anyway, desperately holding back tears. She did up Sarah’s covers, helped her find another nightgown that wasn’t covered in bloody mucus. She then went to clean up the kitchen, finding the dirty rag and other bloodstained materials, shoving them into an empty burlap sack kept for the sole purpose of disposing of sick.

“Do you need me to help you to the hospital in the mornin’, Sarah?” Winifred asked quietly, trying not to listen to Sarah’s strained breathing. She was lying on a mattress on the floor, ratty old quilts and what looked like an Army-issue coat her only insulation. The blonde woman looked tinier than she ever had, to Winifred—barely an indent in the mattress, all skin and bones and feverish skin. Still, Winifred had to quirk a smile at the utter waspish glare Sarah gave her from the covers, pale and sickly she may seem.

“I can walk m’self to the asylum. I’m quite capable.”

_Like hell,_ Winifred thought, but wisely held her tongue. Sarah Rogers was a proud woman and a damn mean fighter. Instead, she murmured, “Yes, Sarah,” and started for the door. Before she did, though, Sarah breathed, “Winifred?” as she was wont to. And, as Winifred was wont to, she turned expectantly.

The banshee’s smile was still rust-colored, but it was sweeter than the last. She murmured, “I had _anamchara,_ once. A girl from my village. We were sweet on each other, like your Jamie and my Steven are. We learned so much from each other.” Winifred watched as Sarah’s eyes got further and further away, duller as she was swallowed by memory. “ _Mo chéadsearc…_ was lovely, my first, even before Joseph. I loved him, but…” she trailed off, hoarse, eyes fluttering shut. “She was so much like Jamie… so much…”

Winifred left her then, feeling like she’d been shot in the chest. Already, the streets seemed darker—the spare lamplight reflected on the wet streets, spots of mud marring the walkways. As she approached home, hat pulled low over her eyes, she wondered how dark the world would be with one less bright spot in it.

 

On April first, 1932, Sarah Rogers died. Tuberculosis, the doctors said, like the ones she’d treated at the asylum. They told Steve that it was the fever that did her in, the illness just too much for her malnourished, tiny body to bear.

They told Winifred Barnes something different. They told her the real reason—that she’d asphyxiated on her own bloody mucus, that she’d died crying, wailing for her son. The doctors and the nurses looked so frightened, wan and overdrawn like a taut bowstring. She hadn’t known exactly why until she saw Sarah’s frail, cold body in the hospital bed.

A date was scratched into the mattress by Sarah’s side, ripped up by fingernails. _01/17/1945._ Winifred could only imagine what it meant.

Steve didn’t take the news well. She didn’t know what she’d expected—denial, maybe. Screaming, crying, wailing—the haunting noises that echoed in Winifred’s head, the death knell of Joseph Rogers. But instead Steve had just stared at the doctors, pale, red-rimmed eyes piercing as his mouth drew into a thin line. He didn’t say a word. Then, as if pulled by a string in his chest, the boy had turned and left, as silent as the grave.

There was no change, even after weeks—long after Sarah had been buried. Steven didn’t talk, barely even lifted his eyes to whoever spoke to him, and kept his distance. Even Jamie, who Winifred had never seen Steve refuse, was cast aside in deference to his mourning. Winifred watched helplessly as the boy drew further and further into himself, away from what remained of his family.

One day, after Winifred had come home from a pregnant woman’s home, she saw her son Arthur sitting on the front step. His wheat-blond hair burnished gold in the sun, and his dark brown eyes were cast up at the horizon, his face adorably scrunched. Winifred had to smile when he saw him—her first genuine smile in weeks.

“Good afternoon, love,” she called, and Arthur blinked at her, eyes wide.

“Mama!” He scrambled up to his feet, still blinking hard. “I thought you was gonna be with Missus Hendrickson a little longer!”

Winifred narrowed her eyes. Arthur was thirteen now, and just getting the hang of lying—thanks to his older sister and brother. She’d heard Jamie coaching him, spouting out dumb things to try and pull the wool over their mother’s eyes. But she wouldn’t be fooled, especially by her youngest son, who was staring a little too intensely for her liking.

“I got out earlier than I had anticipated,” she said, her eyes flicking toward the unopened door. As she expected, Arthur shifted to block her gaze. Winifred suppressed a smirk. “What’s goin’ on in there, huh, Wart?”

A panicked look crossed her son’s face. “Mama—”

Winifred strode forward, gently directing her son out of the way, only to open the door and hear a sudden cacophony of noise. Becca was standing in the middle of the room, looking more lost than Winifred had ever seen her—gray eyes opened wide, mouth parted in shock, fists clenched at her sides. Antanas was nowhere to be seen—at work, her absent memory provided. In the narrow hallway, there stood her young Jamie, Charlie, and Nonie several paces away, staring in surprise at one Steve Rogers, bent over double with laughter. His hand was cupped around his nose—bleeding, Winifred noted, and most likely broken _again—_ but he was laughing so hard Winifred feared for his feeble ribs. Even her entrance didn’t stop him, riotous cackles not stopped, even when he looked at her dead in the eye. Winifred felt her mouth open and close like a fish.

“Charlie made a joke,” Becca said, voice pale. A tiny smile was flickering around the edge of her mouth, as if she didn’t know if she should smile.

“We just took him out to cheer him up. He loves going out with us,” Nonie mumbled, pressing her hand to her mouth.

“It was so dumb,” Charlie added, dumbstruck. Next to him, Nonie was starting to laugh as well, little hiccuping noises, soprano to Steve’s tenor.

Jamie looked like he had stars in his eyes. Tears had collected in his ducts, but his smile was large enough to crack his face in half. He didn’t even look up at his mother as she walked in.

“Buck,” Steve started, his voice muffled by his hand and his (probably) broken nose, “Buck, what if your dumbass brother’s right? What if he _did_ want to be one of the queens?”

The term “queens” was over Winifred’s head, but she saw the way all four of her children blushed crimson. Choosing to ignore it, she spoke gently, as to not startle him. “Steven,” she said, drawing near. She noticed that Steve’s eyes were full of tears, though none were shed and his face was full of mirth. “Steve, dear. Why don’t we get you to bed, hmm?”

Steve’s smile widened drunkenly. Giddy laughs still bubbled out of his mouth, along with a phrase that was uncomfortably similar to, “Yeah, _bed,”_ in a suggestive tone, but again Winifred ignored it, and the way her dear children blushed and tried to look innocent. Especially Jamie.

It took some wrangling to get Steven in bed, and by that time Nonie and Charlie had excused themselves to return to their respective homes. Only Jamie stayed nearby after Steven was fast asleep.

They were silent, watching the banshee boy in Jamie’s bed. He’d refused to sleep in Jamie’s room with him during his mourning—penance, Winifred supposed, abstinence from having something good so he felt galvanized in his grief—but he’d crawled into that bed, drunk and still hiccuping with laughter. He was still skin and bone—he’d even lost weight, with refusing to eat some nights when his grief was so bad. He barely made an indent in Jamie’s busted mattress. Winifred had been feeding him broth for weeks. Only the careful encouragement of the Barnes clan could have made him eat; even Becca had been gentle.

Now, though, Becca was in her room, and Jamie was standing awkwardly by Winifred’s side, something unsaid between them. One look at her son’s (guilty, guilty, guilty) face and Winifred knew something was wrong.

“Jamie, honey,” she said softly, conscious of the sleeping Steven, “what’s wrong, darlin’?”

Jamie swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing starkly in his pale throat. Every day, he looked more like his father. “I just…” he cleared his throat, ducking his head so that Winifred could see the mottled blush on his neck. “I just wanted to, uh… explain, Ma, that me an’ Steve…”

“James Buchanan Barnes, have you _tupped_ that boy?” The words burst from her mouth, only to have her son gape at her in shock.

“Shhh! _Ma!_ ” he hissed, wide-eyed, embarrassed and infuriated at once. “ _No,_ Christ Almighty, he’s turnin’ fourteen in a month!”

An unspeakable relief flooded her veins. “Oh, thank God,” she breathed, but she still smacked him on the arm. “You can’t shush your mother, James Buchanan.”

“ _Ma,”_ Jamie said, exasperated, “I’m tryin’ to _tell_ you somethin’.”

Winifred rolled her eyes at his melodrama. “James, if it has anything to do with how you feel about that boy, you have nothin’ to say to me.”

Jamie looked at her, dazed, his mouth slack. “Mama, I… And you don’t—You’re not angry?” he sputtered, eyes wide and hair falling into his face. In that moment, he looked more like the little gray-eyed lad that followed her around the house and plopped in her lap demanding stories, than he had in years.

Winifred couldn’t help the burst of affection, and gently brought her son into her arms. “ _A leanbh,_ I could never be angry at you. Especially not because of Steven,” she murmured, feeling his hands clasp in the back of her dress. She smiled sadly as she said, “Sarah and I knew long before you lads had figured it out for yourselves.”

A laugh or a sob bubbled up from his throat. “God. _God,_ Ma, I don’t know what’s happenin’,” Jamie whispered, rolling his forehead on her shoulder. “One minute I wanna strangle him, the next I want to wrap him up and never let ‘im go. And there’s this _kick,_ right behind my heart,” he said, choked.

Winifred shushed him gently, rubbing up and down his spine. Jamie clung to her, not crying but close to it, murmuring about the kick hurt harder sometimes, how scared he was when Steve wasn’t eating, how sick he felt during Steve’s grief. And Winifred was reminded of Sarah Rogers, deathly ill in bed, telling her about another _anamchara,_ years and years ago. A fierce urge to protect welled up inside her.

Sarah Rogers may not have lived to see the day that their sons understood what was between them. But, Winifred promised Sarah’s memory, that she would remember every moment. That she’d remember enough for both of them.

 

* * *

 

 

> _ Many scholars debate on the relationship between Sergeant Barnes and Captain Rogers. The general public seems to believe the normative view: that James Barnes and Steve Rogers were friends from childhood, that war strengthened their friendship and heroism ran in the blood of immigrant-born, poor Brooklyn kids from the 30s. However, in a stunning leak from the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History, documents acquired from Rogers’ own apartment confirmed the controversial relationship between Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers. _
> 
> _Upon further inspection, the letters were actually written by Winifred Gormlaith Barnes, James’s mother. The letters document everything from lovers’ spats to exasperation at how in love the two were. Each letter is addressed, “Dear Sarah,” presumably Rogers’ own mother, who died in 1932…_ (Nelson, _Destroying Heteronormativity: Historical Figures Who Were Actually Gay_ )

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love!!!
> 
> Irish used:  
>  **(mo) chéadsearc** : (my) first love (sidenote: "first" in this sense is meant as in primary, not as ~first ever)  
>  **a rún** : secret
> 
> Other terms:  
>  **The White Hand** : Irish gang dominating New York, ended pretty spectacularly by the Black Hand (later coined the Italian Mafia, a.k.a The Mob) in an ensuing territory war  
>  **Moll** : '30s slang for a mobster's girlfriend/wife  
>  **Bricky** : a Victorian term meaning "brave" or "tough"  
>  **Tupped** : doin' the dirty, the ol' snake in the hole, hanky panky, etc.  
>  **01/17/1945** : I wonder what this date is :o But let's just say that it was the day in 1912 where Robert Falcon Scott reaches the South Pole ;-)
> 
> If you guys have any questions, comments, concerns, or just want to give encouragement, stop by on my tumblr, here: [x](http://capnsteeb.tumblr.com/)


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